


San Francisco (You Got Me)

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Aftercare, Afternoon Tea, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, Boot Worship, Bootblacking, Canes, Caning, Chivalry, Consensual Incest, Corsetry, Crisco, Cryptophasia, Cuddling and Snuggling, D/s, Daddy Kink, Discipline, DominantCersei, DominantJaime, Drag, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Female Dominance, Feral, Figging, Fisting, Folsom Street Fair, Genderplay, Hair Pulling, Handkerchief Code, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, Knives, Latex, Laughter During Sex, Leather, Leather Culture, Lemon Cakes, Love, M/M, Male Dominance, Master/Slave, Motorcycles, Multi, Old Guard Leather, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Other, Pack Dynamics, Petplay, Polyamory, Predator/Prey, Public Sex, Queer Het, Queer Themes, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Service, Shibari, Shopping, Snowballing, Spanking, Strap-on play, Submission, The Septas of Perpetual Indulgence, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M, Top Drop, Toys, True Love, Twincest, Vibrators, Whipping, body service, boot licking, chivalric fetishism, collar and lead, elegance, erotic humiliation, go-go boys, hanky code, lannister fetish, leather daddies, leather fetishism, leather harness, lemon cakes are aftercare, luxury fetishism, ménage à trois, peep shows, play piercing, primal, service-oriented submission, slings - Freeform, the wolf girl who longed for the sun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:02:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in another space and time, our pride takes a trip to the most lecherous place on Earth; The Folsom Street Fair. Lust, delicious cruelty, luxury, public depravity and lemon cakes.</p><p>A companion story to _The Wolf-Girl Who Longed for the Sun_.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Pride Awaits Adventure.

They’ve been in the lounge for about an hour, Ser Jaime poring over leather jackets in a glossy lad mag, Sansa looking over the elegant pastries and choosing lemon cake together with a sugary mocha with expertly steamed milk.  
(The barista has drawn a lion in the froth and Sansa squeals, throwing a handful of gold dragons into his tip cup before she snaps a picture because she finds it adorable. The barista knows what side his bread is buttered on--and that good service is most appreciated.)  
Tickets have been collected, security bypassed and Cersei, Ser Jaime and Sansa have been screened with the tenderest, daintiest of pat-downs, the luggage is already loaded. All that matters is the comfort of the beautiful lounge, rich with dark walnut panels, overstuffed burgundy chairs and wide windows to showcase the fleet of planes.  
From nose to tail to spread wings, the planes are red as Cersei’s finest lipstick, her little cub’s blood, the bottoms of her rose gold pumps. The magnificent shoes rest on a cushion as Cersei sits relaxing. One of the departure lounge masseuses rubs her temples with lavender oil while another caresses her hands, gently working at each finger. The Lannister lioness sighs in pleasure, eyes fluttering closed behind her large tortoiseshell sunglasses, a beam of sunlight making the gold Medusa on either side twinkle. 

She hears her cub and her brother laughing in excitement, him low and rumbling, Sansa’s laughter bright and sparkling as champagne as she sips her coffee, nibbles her cake, tries not to look extravagantly excited. Cersei half-smiles; her girl Sansa has no guile, nothing in her but pure delight. There’s no need to have her any other way. The masseuse asks no questions, simply works a tiny space on Cersei’s palm. Cersei lets herself drop into the comfort like a warm bath, the nerves of packing, planning and waking up before dawn suddenly slipping away. She nods yes to a Bellini, made with organic locally farmed peaches and a sparkling Arbor Gold because Cersei finds the Napa Valley overrated, but is certain she’ll be able to find something to her taste when they get there.

After all, it is San Francisco.


	2. Go West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lioness guides the pride.  
> Comfort.  
> On the way to Babylon-by-the-Bay.

Ser Jaime’s simple yet elegant black leather duffle, Sansa’s lurid pink weekender with sparkling gold hardware and XOXO patterned on its soft sides and Cersei’s buttery soft gilded leather case snuggle together in the overhead bin, mirroring the passengers below them. 

“I’ve never seen such a leggy girl fight to be in the middle. We do have a long flight so I’m not going to complain.” Ser Jaime stretches out tilting his seat back, his golden hair gleaming against the red on red brocade. He tugs at a loose strand of Sansa’s ruby hair, teasing. “I think somebody is a greedy little minx.” He laughs as Sansa retaliates, tugging at a curl of his hair with a growl, then Ser Jaime leans over to hiss in her ear. “And if she doesn’t stop it, she’s getting a far worse punishment than cramped legs.” Sansa yelps and drops her fingers as if her Ser’s hair were flaming.

“Sansa.” Cersei’s voice is firm, her eyes hidden behind her black silk eye mask. “Remember your manners. This is first class, not a bear pit.” Cersei lifts her mask and presses the call button, whispers to an attendant, who returns with a small bottle and a glass of ice with creamy liquid inside.” Cersei smiles, locking her green eyes with Sansa’s. “Drink this, little dove--and not a word or a squirm till we’re airborne. Understood?” Sansa nods, slightly cowed. Cersei tries to remain firm even though a smile twinkles within her, nudging at the ends of her lips. “Good.” Sansa sips at the liqueur, nods her thanks as an attendant hands her a feather pillow. Sansa then tucks her earphones into her jacket sleeve stretches her legs, flashing Cersei a bit of the seamed stockings she’s wearing under her lilac and white dress. (Lannisters do not wear scrubs, sweats or even the most expensive of yoga pants on airplanes.) Cersei notes with irritation that there are far too many yoga pants even in first class, then smiles at her cub--far more pleasant to look at-- and murmurs. “Good girl.” She’s rewarded with a dazzling smile as bright as the golden chain around Sansa’s neck as Cersei’s own girl sips at her sweet drink, watches other passengers shuffle in as the taste of alcohol and cream burns sweetly on her tongue. Ser Jaime looks over their cub to smile at his beloved sister, winking. Cersei arches her brow, but then smiles back and he’s happy too. At least she’s only had to put one of them in line--so excitable. Ser Jaime takes Sansa’s empty cup and bottle to put on his own tray for the attendant, wraps a burgundy velour blanket around their cub, their sweetest little sister. “Snug as a bug in a rug.” he whispers and Sansa nods and smiles as he pats her knee, tucks her in at the waist where he knows he can feel her waist chain even under the excess cloth. That makes him smile too.

As her darlings settle in, Cersei nods graciously as the attendant puts up her tray, watches impassively as the front cabin attendant places a mask over her own nose and mouth, mimes breathing. She notes that Ser Jaime is quietly settling in with his own pillow, touching his knee to their cub’s, just as Cersei touches her elbow to Sansa’s own. Cersei likes this. It feels like a circuit of love between them all, a tenderness humming with fierceness and power. As the plane taxis, Cersei feels the engines vibrate and her feelings lift, all the indignities of the airport fading away. As the plane lifts into the morning sunlight, she looks over to see Sansa fast asleep. The Lannister lioness allows herself a contented smile, then snaps her eye mask back into place, breathing in its lavender scent. She needs her comforts and they’ll certainly be up late this week. The little pride dozes safe and warm in their own comfortable row, dreaming their golden dreams as they wing their way closer to the dreamlands of California.


	3. Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distress.  
> Relaxing.  
> The perfect welcome.

Despite being located in a licentious Babylon, SFO is as miserable as any airport can be.  
Jaime can tell Cersei is gritting her teeth, very uncomfortable--and Jaime’s been around long enough to know that if Cersei is acting like Stannis Baratheon, something must be done. Immediately.  
A quick nod to Sansa and everything is managed; Sansa starts discussion of Madame S., absinthe bars and visits to Dark Garden and Nordstrom’s. Cersei visibly relaxes and chats as they are dragged with the crowd to the baggage claim. 

As if planned in an elegant dance, Ser Jaime glides over to the claim while Sansa with a graceful half-step turns Cersei away from it, keeps her talking so her lioness doesn’t have to look at the roundabout. Sansa catches Jaime’s jade eye with her sapphire one and he smiles, relieved.  
Such a good cub.

Before the screeching noises that greet the turning of the roundabout can get any worse, Sansa looks at her Lady. “Shall we go fix our makeup?” Sansa smiles, seeing herself reflected in the surface of Cersei’s tortoiseshell sunglasses. “I can rub your temples with lavender oil if you want. It’s been a long flight.”  
Cersei’s smile is suddenly relaxed, unforced. Suddenly she realizes she’s miles away from anyone who knows her and if anyone sees her--well, they won’t want her mentioning where they’ve been either. “Yes. Thank you, little dove.”  
Sansa’s smile is as bright as the gold chain locked around her slender neck.

Sansa catches Ser Jaime’s eye as they walk off to the ladies room, arm in arm, winks.  
Inside it’s an airport bathroom; Cersei looks twitchily at the water puddled around the sinks. Sansa dabs it dry with a paper towel, washes her own hands, dabs on hand sanitizer, then hands the clear purple gel to Cersei. Sansa knows her Lady is going to feel much better when she has her own bathroom. Sansa hops up to sit on the makeup counter so Cersei can remove her sunglasses, lean back into Sansa’s bosom and close her eyes. Sansa takes the oil, starts rubbing it on her Lady’s temples so she can breathe easier.

“My good girl. Good girl.” sighs Cersei, almost unable to speak from relief, the soothing scent of the lavender oil, the brief moment of respite from the hideous clanking, screeching of the machines and agonizing crowds by the baggage carousel. 

She closes her eyes, feeling Sansa’s heartbeat, her girl’s soft breast, Sansa’s tender cheek against hers and can’t help but turn for a long, slow kiss. There’s no hurry and Sansa always tastes sweet, honeyed with the most delicate, luscious lips. Sansa is daring, her rosy tongue brushing at her Lady’s lips, hungry for Cersei’s mouth, every part of her. Cersei turns to face Sansa so her little dove can slip her tongue deeper inside her mouth, thrust slowly. Sansa locks her ankles around Cersei’s back, her violet pumps shimmering like flower petals against her Lady’s elegant black cashmere travel wrap. 

Cersei doesn’t give a damn if anyone sees, reaches around her girl to slide up her skirt, reveal the sturdy ivory garter belt that holds up her sheer stockings. (There are other ones for later; red ones, Tiffany blue ones, rose, soft lemon and mint and lavender with ruffles that make Sansa look like a confection herself. Cersei’s already thinking about a bite, how tasty her girl will be in pastel frills. Cersei prefers a rare steak and a rich red wine, but loves Sansa looking like she’s spun from sugar and champagne.)

They’re both flushed when the kiss breaks, hungry for more. “Thank you, sweetling.” Cersei purrs, running her fingers through Sansa’s hair, then reaching down. Cersei grins with an arched brow, a smile of triumph.  
Sansa moans with pleasure, squirms.

“Seems my girl’s a bit overdressed for this climate, hmm?” Sansa blushes as Cersei puts out her hand. “You know what to do.” whispers her Queen, a wicked smile on her lips.  
Red-faced, Sansa wriggles out of her panties, contorting to slide the wisp of cream silk down her legs without dropping them on the floor. She folds them into a perfect square, shyly presents them to her Lady.

“Much better.” murmurs Cersei, slipping the silk into her purse, then helping Sansa down. Cersei tidies Sansa’s red hair, kisses her on the nose to make her laugh. Sansa adjusts her peony lips as Cersei freshens hers with three sharp strokes of red, snaps the gold Dior case shut. There’s a slight noise at the door.  
Cersei feels very wicked.  
She smiles at Sansa. “Silly me. I forgot to blot.” Before Sansa can react, Cersei’s flipped up the circle of Sansa’s white and lilac skirt, pressed a kiss to her belly right above the waistband of the garter belt. Sansa shivers with pleasure, Cersei’s half drunk on her girl’s scent, leaning to kiss to Sansa's pearl-pale waxed mons Venus, mark her again--

the door opens as Cersei’s brushing down Sansa’s skirt, Sansa’s own sapphire eyes sparkling wickedly as they kiss in a fury of gold and red, tongues sliding out for a brief touch--

and two women in identical blue polo shirts come in, their sensible purses caught on their tour group name tags. They blush, try to look away but can’t stop staring at the golden lioness and her cub as they stride out arm in arm, faces bright with lust. Cersei’s voice floats back on the air twined with a faint breath of lavender:

“Welcome to San Francisco.”


	4. Everybody Knows I'm Her Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner.  
> Dessert.  
> A test to come.

The DJ in the window fills the restaurant with thumping beats, makes everyone’s hips shimmy just a bit; Sansa notices as their waitress sets down their order, shaking her hips.  
Her Lady raises an eyebrow, lifts her glass as if to toast, then turns to their feast; crisp, hot, potato frites in their metal and paper cones, rose and ivory sauces gleaming in their white china cups, a perfect dry aged steak seared on the outside,rich with blood, black and blue they call it, just as Cersei likes it. She is a lioness after all.

Sansa and Ser Jaime greedily reach for the frites, playfully trying to see who can eat the hottest sauce; wasabi mayonaise, chipotle remoulade, habanero ketchup. Sansa’s mouth burns from the spices and she notices her Ser’s turning a bit pink in the cheeks. He stretches out on the black leather banquette, takes a large sip of his own wine. Sansa watches Cersei delicately dip a single frite into the artichoke and white truffle mayonaise, savoring it slowly. Sansa shivers, feeling Cersei’s eyes on her. Sansa peeks back from under lowered lashes, taking in every detail of her Lady’s form-fitting black satin gown, the elbow length black leather gloves she’s put aside to eat: Sansa savors the curves of the silk, the delicacy, just as her Queen bites into her steak, chewing slowly, swallowing.  
Sansa’s mouth waters.  
Cersei motions for Sansa to come closer and she does.

Cersei cuts a bite of steak, proffers it . “Eat.” Sansa chews slowly, lets the flavor blossom on her tongue, rich protein, tarragon from the butter. Involuntarily, she parts her lips for more, eats the meat from her Lady’s silver fork. “Good girl.” Cersei murmurs. “You need to keep up your strength. And you can’t just eat frites. Otherwise you won’t get dessert.” Sansa’s eyes twinkle. “I read the menu, sweetling. It seems that they have banana and Nutella crepes which I think a certain girl would like.” Sansa smiles, laughs. Her laughter rings like tiny silver bells over the heavy percussion from the DJ. Cersei thinks the DJ's showing off and does not care for his lumpy blonde dreadlocks; however she does appreciate the hip-shaking that comes with it. Her little red cub is already twisting in her seat, sliding on her raspberry satin dress, flushed pink from spices and sparkling wine.

Now Cersei’s mouth waters.

She winks at Ser Jaime. He smiles.  
Cersei takes Sansa’s hand, lifts her to her feet, lets Sansa offer her arm--and she loves how the bearded, plaid-wrapped men and the girls in vintage tees stare at them as they walk slowly; the black satin femme fatale with her girl in a raspberry pink dress with a skirt that would make anyone want to twirl and twirl. Both of them flash the red of their soles as they walk. Cersei is pleased; they are magnificent. They walk past the boxes of produce and bags of potatoes at the edge of the kitchen, stopping before the patio.

Sansa’s startled; the toilets are simple, wooden doors and sides, not inside, open to the air. Then with a tug Cersei pulls her into one stall. It’s small enough that they are pressed close enough to kiss and they do, Sansa leaning to her Lady, Cersei kissing deep, drinking her in. Sansa’s kissing back pressed close to the warmth of her Lady, arms wrapped around her waist. They break, flushed and pleased, smiling at each other in the half light. 

There’s a roll of toilet paper pressing into Sansa’s back. She doesn’t care. Cersei’s kissing her neck, nibbling at her ear till Sansa’s ready to melt, softly gasping as her Lady, lifts the folds of her rosy skirt to touch, enjoy what’s hers. Cersei leans in, inhales the soft bouquet of Sansa’s skin. Sansa sighs in pleasure, runs her fingers through her Lady’s hair as Cersei’s pointed tongue traces spirals on her mound then agonizingly slowly to her clit. Cersei looks up and Sansa reads the message in her emerald eyes--silence. Sometimes, they don’t even need to talk, just a hip thrust, a wink, a sigh, a long look. Sansa writhes against the partition of the stall, her Lady’s head framed by raspberry satin touching and touching, then her fingers inside pressing, Sansa gasps, bites her lip

and comes, spilling fluid down her legs, dampening her stockings, sweat starring her brow, dampening her garnet hair to curl softly, “ThankyoumyLadythankyou.” gasps Sansa as Cersei arises, golden hair perfect, lipstick only slightly smeared. Cersei puts her finger to her lips, looks into Sansa’s sapphire eyes, starts pressing her head down, Sansa slides to her knees, then Sansa’s lips to the patent leather of Cersei’s pump. Sansa kisses furiously, shamelessly, all joy. Cersei feels the warm, silky pressure of Sansa’s tongue through the leather on the inside of her foot--and she grips Sansa’s red hair a bit tighter. Then the licks and kisses grow faster, Cersei groans softly at the pleasure of making Sansa dance with the press of her fingers, then crouches to lift up Sansa’s chin. Sansa’s face is smeared, her mascara dripping in black curves, her eyes blazing with desire.  
Cersei’s never been one for gods, but she is quietly grateful for whatever sent this beautiful girl colliding into her path.  
(Better yet, beautiful and loving her.)  
Cersei looks down for a minute at her girl’s smile, there in the dim light of the stall, the bass still thumphing through the walls, fixing it in her memory.  
Sansa looks back, sweetly, with a question in her eyes.  
“Just admiring. My sweetest little dove. “ Cersei's well manicured hand caresses Sansa’s face, moves to Sansa’s lips for kissing. Cersei feels the fire within her build from those tiny kisses, rocks her hips and starts to slide up her dress, elegant thigh-high stockings, soft down of golden hair. Cersei looks at Sansa and nods yes. Sansa’s on her in the space of a thought, licking, caressing, then her fingers sliding in and out swiftly, just as her Queen likes. Cersei trembles from pleasure, hears a rattle from the partition, thrusts her hips forward to her little cub’s ready tongue.  
Cersei has to bite her hand to not make noise as she comes, rolling her hips, rubbing against Sansa’s face, giving the partition a final shake, then pulling Sansa up to rock her in her arms, tangle her in a kiss. “Good girl.” she whispers. “My good girl. Always.”  
Sansa nuzzles into her Lady’s shoulder, happy tears in her eyes.  
***  
They dab their faces with the cheap toilet paper, Cersei doctoring her lipstick as gently as she can, teasingly nodding “no” when Sansa tries to tidy her face. Sansa grins.  
They step out of the stall and start to walk back, Sansa’s eyes gleaming as she points out a sign:  
_Only one (1) person in each stall._  
“Oh, well.” Sansa says airily, waving her hand and this time it’s Cersei who can’t hold back a giggle, can’t resist kissing Sansa again.  
Back at the table they slide into the booth where Ser Jaime sits, idly contemplating an empty paper frites cone, his eyes flashing wickedly as Sansa curls up against him, keeping one hand on her Lady’s knee. “ He grins at Sansa. “Had to finish them. Didn’t want them to get cold.” Sansa pouts, biting her lip at her Ser, just as the waitress comes by, leaving a hot cone of the potatoes on their table. “You’re not the only one who can tease, sweetling.”, he grins, tapping Sansa on the nose with a frite, then dropping it into her mouth.  
Cersei smiles, squeezes Sansa’s hand.  
They finish eating, Cersei ensuring that Sansa eats plenty of steak and salad between her frites, Ser Jaime feeding her bites of his pancetta-sauced gnocchi till Sansa feels warm, well-fed, loved.  
Cersei whispers “For our good girl.” as the waitress slips a plate garbed white with whipped cream , starred with banana onto their table. Sansa takes the first bite, rich with Nutella, banana and delicate crepe, savoring it, closing her eyes with pleasure. Then she gestures her pretty hand so they can all attack it, Ser Jaime and Cersei having had their dessert forks at the ready.  
“They say that Nutella does double duty.” Ser Jaime grins, his eyes twinkling. “Did you know it’s a sex toy as well?”  
Sansa laughs, her bright silver tones ringing through the restaurant, Cersei smiling into her napkin. “Only scientific fact.” Ser Jaime smiles, the candles painting his hair with gold shimmer.  
He notices Sansa finishes every tiny bite, smiles up at him. “We’ll have to test it later, little cub. But we will, you naughty thing.” He kisses Sansa lightly on the lips, leans over to kiss Cersei, his tongue slipping openly into her mouth, brazen and delicious, sweeter than their dessert.  
Cersei relaxes, lets the beats from the DJ run into her veins, like another heartbeat, one that’s theirs, one that’s welcome in this city. When the kiss breaks she sighs sweetly as a maiden.  
“More to come, my love.” whispers Ser Jaime, twining his sisters hair in a gold spiral round his fingers. “So much more.”  
The whole pride snuggles in the leather booth, replete, not quite ready to leave, basking in the warmth, the music, not giving a damn about anyone’s looks. The staff doesn’t mind, especially with their generous tip.  
Cersei allows Ser Jaime to walk out with Sansa on one arm, her on the other. She’s wrapped up and warm taking just the tiniest bit of pleasure at the stares of faux horror and real jealousy at her vintage silver fox wrap.  
_Let them stare_.  
She’s never been one to care what others think, especially ones who’ve paid hundreds for a t-shirt with a band they’ll never hear on it.  
***  
The taxi’s warm, Sansa squeezed happily into the middle, drowsing. As they roll on in the darkness, Cersei whispers in Sansa’s ear. “We’re both expecting a lot of you this week. But our brave girl can do anything.” Sansa smiles softly, a little nervous, but still safe. Ser Jaime takes Sansa’s rose-gloved hand in his. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Wicked Grounds and we’ll talk about it. You’ll make me proud. I promise. Good, good girl.”  
Satisfied, they briefly dream of clean white sheets, masses of pillows, the jets in the whirlpool--but most of all, falling asleep together, all the pride close and safe, not a one missing or lost.  
The city lights sparkle like wild eyes in the darkness; bright as burning hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Restaurant is based on this one in the Mission; while I've fiddled with some things, you can still get delicious frites and a good meal here when in San Francisco:  
> http://www.frjtzfries.com/
> 
> Title comes from the Tori Amos classic "Raspberry Swirl". Yum.:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0O2-xV5XEA


	5. Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good mornings.  
> Travel.   
> Correction.

Sansa’s cuddled up to a pillow, dreaming. She feels a nibble at her shoulder, a soft sweet gnawing at her skin. Her eyes open in the half-dark of the room, and Ser Jaime comes into focus; skin still damp and soft from the shower, his golden hair mussed, his scent of honey and spices intoxicating. Sansa breathes in with pleasure, leaning towards him, trying to drag him back to bed, to come and keep her warm. 

Ser Jaime puts a finger to her lips. “Good morning, sweetest girl.” He grins, feeling Sansa smile under his finger, feels himself stiffen--but that’s for later. “Time to wake up. We’re going to go have breakfast and let our Lady sleep. She needs it.” He looks over tenderly to Cersei, asleep on her back, a black satin mask covering her emerald eyes, her hair fanning out in golden rays over the huge white pillow. Ser Jaime brushes his fingers to his lips, blows his sister a gentle kiss.   
He hugs Sansa, her nude white body warm against his black cashmere sweater, strokes her hair. Sansa lifts up to kiss him, warm, slow and sweet, like morning light filling their bodies. She tugs. Ser Jaime chuckles softly. “Not now, sweetling. Come on, I’ve drawn you a bath.” Sansa somehow gets out of bed without grumbling and yawning, walks over to the bathroom, bright with light, the rich sweetness of honeyed bubbles in the tub. Ser Jaime knows her favorite bath treats by now.

Ser Jaime groans inwardly, thinking of Sansa’s nude body, ivory in the black room, hips, curves, perfect rounded ass. Later. He taps softly on the door and whispers.

“I’ll meet you downstairs. Don’t be late.”

***  
Ser Jaime’s been resting languidly on the lobby couch, his caramel cashmere coat thrown over his morning ensemble, idly thumbing through a magazine; Coit Tower, cable cars, Fisherman’s Wharf. He supresses a sigh, thinking that their pride has far lovelier sights to see. He looks up to see Sansa, radiant in a vintage ivory beaded sweater, black kitten heels, white stockings  
and a red plaid kilt, clipped with a golden pin.  
His mouth waters.  
Sansa grins inwardly, flashing him a gentle smile, lowering her eyes in deference.  
Ser Jaime comes to take her arm, kiss her good morning again, checking with a tiny squeeze to see if she’s wearing panties.  
She’s not.  
“Good girl.” he purrs in her ear, then wraps her in her warm black wool jacket.  
She takes his arm and they go to the car.  
***  
“Little. Minx.” he breathes hotly in her ear, both of them pressed together in the back seat. “Plaid skirt. Naughty, naughty girl. Are you trying to get me to drag you into an alley?” Sansa’s sapphire eyes sparkle from her lowered glance.   
She nods yes.  
“I see.” Ser Jaime growls into her ear.   
Sansa leans over to whisper back in his ear. “See what?” Her voice is all bubblegum laced with champagne, innocence wanting to be defiled and gods, it’s making him so hard. He can feel her smile against his ear, the searing heat of her breath. “Daddy.”  
Ser Jaime reaches under her skirt, fixes her with a look that she knows means to keep still and quiet. Looking ahead he calmly pinches her upper thigh, as he admires the painted Victorian houses along the route. Sansa breathes softly, lowly, easing herself on to the edge of the pain, she knows it’s going to bruise. Ser Jaime feels her tremble, then adds fingernails, digging them in, clawing his little cub to remind her he’s in charge. Sansa’s sitting perfectly still, past the edge to the point where it’s all sensation, sparkling like bubbles in her blood, making her insides melt. With one final press she closes her eyes, trembles like a tree in the wind, so quietly all Ser Jaime feels is a gentle flutter as she still looks perfectly still. Then she lays her head on his shoulder, still quivering softly, feeling like she’s illuminated inside herself, slick cunt to shimmering spine to the pleasure blossoming in and out at the crown of her head, dizzied and sweet. Sansa presses her nose to Ser Jaime’s coat, inhales deeply, tender as a kiss.

Ser Jaime smiles, kissing her forehead. “My sin, my soul. Light of my life, fire of my loins.” He knows it makes Sansa squirm and it does. He wraps his arm around her. “I thought you didn’t like to read.” she whispers sleepily and sweetly. “ Ser Jaime grins, the morning sunlight catching golden fire in his hair. “True. However, there are books I’ll make an effort for.” Sansa kisses his shoulder, nuzzling.  
“Like _Daddy’s Ravaged Princess_?” she whispers teasingly, remembering the lurid paperback she’d found in his glove drawer when she’d run up to get a pair for him.   
(Sansa remembers the gloves were the oxblood leather with the delicate stitching and very kissable fingertips. She smiles, recalling the taste on her tongue.)  
Ser Jaime fixes her with a stern look.  
“Yes. Exactly like that. And if you’re not good, it won’t be your bedtime story.”  
“I’ll be good, Ser.”she murmurs, nuzzling his coat, thinking of the pleasure of her Ser reading to her at night, things that make her gasp and squeal and cuddle her pillows.  
“Good.” he smiles back. “Now then. We’re almost to breakfast. We’ll need to eat well, and keep up our strength. Lots to do, lots to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for fun: Sansa's favorite shower gel/bath bubbles:  
> http://www.lushusa.com/It's-Raining-Men/9999903406,en_US,pd.html


	6. The Morning News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Jaime and Sansa embark on an adventure.
> 
> Good breakfast.
> 
> Saucy coffee.

Sansa sits at the table, her ankles crossed daintily, inhaling the steam from the bowl-sized sunny yellow cup of cafe au lait in fromt of her. Ser Jaime is at the counter ordering their breakfast. Sansa smiles, looking at the customers lining up for a macchiato or a red-eye, picking up a pastry for a sweet snack. 

Three couriers sit drinking espresso, their battered document bags over their shoulders, their jackets striped with reflective tape, the cafe reflected in the huge red stone plugs in their earlobes. Sunlight catches the steel and crystal of one girl’s septum piercing. It matches the silver beads in her black hair.

Ahead of Ser Jaime, a girl with a crown of vivid green braids takes three coffees to go, her smart black and white houndstooth suit contrasting with her green sequinned high tops. Sansa thinks she has a pretty smile--and that she has elegant leather office pumps in her black leather backpack. Sansa wonders if they too are emerald. to match their owner’s hair.

Sansa looks at the windows with rainbow flags and blue black and red flags, walls adorned with art of tattooed women and men in veils of knotwork, the bookshelves with so many titles, brilliant hanks of rope, the basket of wrapped cookies at the register. She bites her lip, slightly nervous, a little worried that she’s done something wrong, even though she doesn’t think it’s true. 

What is her Ser going to talk to her about? 

Ser Jaime arrives with a tray of bagels, eyes gleaming. “There’s my sweetest girl.” He kisses her on the cheek, puts a pesto, egg and goat cheese bagel on the table takes his lox and cream cheese, cuts it in half. He tidily takes one half of Sansa’s and leaves her half of his. It’s enough to calm Sansa; her Ser loves breakfast. When they eat it together he makes sure they share, to get a taste of everything. She allows herself a trembly little smile, takes a nibble of lox, Ser Jaime slipping her a few extra capers since he knows she loves them.

Ser Jaime takes a sip of coffee to cover his own nerves; he knows everything will be well, but starting is always difficult. He’s her Ser, wants to do well by her--and that their Lady keeps an eye on things too.  
Just as he’s about to speak, he hears a tiny intake of breath; Sansa is gracious, but very politely surprised. A businessman puts down his tan leather case, spreads out a towel on the gleaming wooden floor, then gets his latte--in a shiny blue plastic dog bowl. He breathes in the rich scent of coffee and caramel, daintily places the bowl at the top of the towel. The businessman gets down on all fours in his tailored charcoal suit to breathe on the coffee for a bit of coolness, then tucks a napkin over his slate and lavender silk tie to lap at it in pleasure. Sansa peeks over her drink to see the man’s back quiver, the softest of growls as he drinks, simply there, simply pure and happy.  
Sansa’s eyes are wide with delight. “It’s so lovely.” she whispers to Ser Jaime.  
“Isn’t it?” he whispers back.

He pats her hand. “Good morning, little cub.” he whispers, leans in to tug lightly on the golden chain around her neck.

 

“Good morning, Ser.” replies Sansa, starting with a bite of bagel and lox. Ser Jaime leans back with his coffee and starts to speak.  
“You know I lived here for a while, don’t you?” Sansa nods. “I know you had internships and training and work here a long time ago. Other things. Before you came back.”  
She smiles. “Before I met you and our Lady.”

“Clever girl.” Ser Jaime reaches over to ruffle her garnet hair, spattered with gold from the morning light, letting her nuzzle into his palm as he continues the story:

“There was another reason I came here; I’ve told you a little bit, that I trained here.” Sansa puts down her bagel to listen, her eyes intent, piercing blue. “Eat.” Ser Jaime grins, teasingly. “Or no more story. There’s a reason I want your strength up.”

Sansa bites, swallows, sips at her coffee, taking ladylike bites but eating enough to please him, then more because it’s delicious and she’s hungry.  
“Very good. You get more story.”

Sansa leans forward, her eyes deep blue and intent, gazing at her Ser.

With a tiny smirk, Ser Jaime leisurely leans back in his chair, takes a slow, elegant bite of his bagel, swallowing, eyes closed. “Delicious.” he sighs, one eye watching Sansa squirm. He pauses a moment, watching her fidget.  
“Yes. A story.” He sips his coffee. “I had an apartment on Valencia, came here to learn---was heartbroken to leave our Lady, but wanted to make the best of it. There was something I knew I had to do here. “ He pauses, murmurs low for dramatic effect. “I’d read; was curious. I knew I was good with weapons, strong, but that there were other things I wanted to learn. I could learn them here. “

Ser Jaime pauses. “That’s when I went into service for a year.” Sansa flushes, looks confused, fascinated. “Service? You mean...?”

“I do, sweetling. I wanted to learn to be the best Ser possible--and the best ones learn by starting at the bottom. Just like with anything I wanted to be the best.”

Sansa pauses, remembers to take a bite, swallow. “You mean...!” she whispers excitedly, reverently.

“Exactly.” Ser Jaime smiles. “ I had a Ser. A Master. A Daddy. Still do. Just like you do now--and always.” Her eyes are like saucers, he can see her chest rising and falling from excitement. “And at the end of the year, I earned my leathers and was a sworn brother.”

Sansa has a million questions but can’t think what to ask first. “You said you’d studied. I thought...” She quivers at the idea, feels strangely protective of her Ser when she thinks about him...licking boots, like she loves. Tidying. Other things that make her twitch in her seat, slick her thighs.

He laughs lowly. “Experience is the best teacher. Don’t you think?” he whispers “Little girl.” Sansa pants. “You love the way I spank you, whip you. You love licking my boots. He growls, eyes locked on hers. “You love it when I fuck your ass so hard you cry and beg for more, saying you’ll die if your Daddy stops.” Sansa groans. “You.” she whispers, understanding.

Ser Jaime smiles. “Yes. And having my girl’s all the sweeter for it.” He drinks the last sip of his cooled coffee, looks to Sansa. Her head in a whirl, she walks to the counter, gets a fresh refill, adds milk the way he likes it. She returns to the table careful and considerate; Sansa would never be rude enough to drop a coffee on someone enjoying their treat on the floor.

“Are you...here to see them?” There’s a lump in Sansa’s throat and her bite of bagel won’t go down till she takes a gulp of her drink. Despite herself her head dips and her eyes sting though she knows her Ser has other friends, other responsibilities. Suddenly the city feels too large and she wishes they were home.

“Yes, sweetling.” Ser Jaime takes the bagel from her shaking hand and puts it on the plate, massaging her her delicate hand between his large ones. “I have business to attend to.”  
Sansa nods and bites her lip because she’s going to be good. 

Ser Jaime cocks his head, looks at his girl with shimmering green eyes. “There’s no need to cry. Just listen. I wouldn’t come all this way to leave you.” Sansa’s eyes perk up. “In fact, part of the business concerns someone I want them to meet.” Befuddled, Sansa wonders if Cersei wants to see them, see what kind of men trained her love. 

Ser Jaime caresses Sansa’s cheek, soothing her; she surrenders to the feel of his fingertips the scent of honey and spices and coffee, the ghost of sage from his shampoo, all sweet familiar things. “You know I’ve taught you things from the very beginning.” he purrs. “Ways to kneel. Posture. Things I didn’t know I wanted to do again till I found you, wolf-girl--and our Lady sent you right into my lap. “

“And then we all fell in love.” Sansa’s face is shining again, her cheeks blushing red as a Valentine’s. 

“Of course. You could never resist me. I’m too delicious.” Ser Jaime shakes out his golden hair, tilts his head so his cheekbones angle just so and smiles as Sansa laughs, any nervousness disappearing. He leans in to whisper. “Our Lady couldn’t either.” His eyes twinkle wickedly as he whispers into her ear. “She wanted to be with me so much she even had to share my birthday. You know how she is when she wants something.” Sansa giggles, happy again. 

“Anyway.” Ser Jaime purrs, taking Sansa’s hand in his. “You’ve learned plenty. I’m so proud.”

“I want them to meet you.”

Sansa opens and closes her mouth briefly. “How?”

 

“Well, I planned like this--Hello. I’m Ser Jaime and this is my boy, Sansa. “ Ser Jaime smiles cheekily. “You’ll be wearing something quite naughty, you’ll kneel at my feet and greet them as you are bid. “ He sips his coffee. Sansa can’t help herself but stares. Ser Jaime looks at her, smiling. “I know it’s not as fancy as our Lady likes to do things, but these are my brothers, so I know what’s best there. “

“But--aren’t they men? All of them?” 

“Yes. And you’ll be the prettiest boy there.” 

Sansa bites her lip. “Won’t ...there be a problem?”

Ser Jaime smiles, rubs the soft place between Sansa’s thumb and forefinger.

“If you’re concerned about that, they know your gender. They also know you’re my boy.  
Years ago, there would have been a problem; there was more concern that it was only men. Not now.  
Anyone of any gender who is spoken for as a boy, brought as a boy and behaves properly as a boy for their master is a boy.” 

Ser Jaime squeezes Sansa’s hand. “You are my boy. You have been, you’ve been taught all along and I’ll teach you all the proper courtesies before we go. This may be harder for you; since there aren’t many boys like you there may be more expected of you. It may be tougher and test you. But I know you can do it. I’d love for you to be my boy.”

Ser Jaime’s the one who looks nervous now. “Would you like that?”

“If you think I can--yes, please Ser.” 

“I know you can, sweetling. I’m proud of how well you serve. Enough to take you back and show you off.” Sansa smiles back. “Yes, Ser. I’ll be perfect for you.”

“You’ll be wonderful. I know how good you are...” he lowers his voice “and what a greedy little slut you can be.”

Sansa blushes red to the tips of her ears. “It’s rougher a place than you’ve been--but there’s a bar. Beer. “ He whispers. “Slings. Just the right height for fucking a pretty ass.” A soft groan escapes Sansa’s throat. “Other things. And there’s a cage with furs that’s just the right size for a sleepy little wolf-pup.”  
Sansa makes a tiny yip despite herself. “Thought you’d like that.You’ll lick my boots, see to all my needs, serve as my own darling slut, be gracious to my brothers and do things that need doing as they come up. You’ll obey me in all things. I will be hard on you and they will too--but fair. Understood?” Sansa nods.

“Good. It’s settled then. Boy.” Sansa tries on a wider grin, finds that it feels nice. “And you’ll be helping sell raffle tickets at the street fair. Boots to Balls. Newest boy always does the measuring.”

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Sansa wants to chuckle at the thought of her Ser obeying anyone much less selling tickets. “Yes. I was very cocky, wasn’t sure that I wanted to--and my Ser gave me twenty strokes all the way down to the back of my thighs. Perfect, even purple stripes.” Ser Jaime grins. “After that, I sold the most.”  
“You were bad?!”  
Ser Jaime laughs at the shock on her fair face. “Perhaps. But I learned. Just enough, though--you like it when I’m bad.”

“I do.” whispers Sansa, rubbing her foot against his. “Excellent.” purrs Ser Jaime. “Now then. Your coffee’s gone cold. Let me get you a fresh one. Finish that last bite like a good girl.” Ser Jaime gets up, Sansa enjoying him, the way everyone turns to look, like he’s the sun itself. She returns herself to the last bite, wiping her mouth and folding her paper napkin.

Ser Jaime returns and Sansa’s hardly ever seen such a wicked look in his eye. “Drink. You’ll need the energy.” Sansa stares, petrified at the red plastic dog bowl in his hands. He grins sharply. “On the floor. We don’t want it to get cold.” Sansa feels a shivery, delicious, frightening shake inside her at the thought of being on the floor. Here. In here...

“Oh. You’re wearing that lovely little kilt with nothing underneath. Well, then.” Ser Jaime puts the bowl by his chair.

“You’re just going to have to be very careful. Unless you want everyone here to see every bit of you.” Sansa’s petrified already feeling cool air under her skirt.. “I seem to recall a little girl who wanted to tease me. “Sansa slowly slides out of her chair, gracefully to the dish, every motion seeming to take forever.Her thighs are already damp from their discussion and she’s blushing so red, she’s as bright as the skirt. Gratefully, she takes a breath of sweet steam from the bowl, calming. “You got my attention. Didn’t you?” he coos at her, menacingly, gently. Feeling everything she is drop deep inside Sansa dips her tongue into the silky, rich coffee, feels her Ser’s hand rubbing her ruby hair, scratching gently at her scalp like she’s a good puppy. “That’s my good girl. Good girl.” All there is is her Ser’s voice and the slow, careful drinking from the bowl. Ser Jaime picks up his magazine and leafs through it while he sips his own drink, his hand never leaving his little wolf-pup. Before reading, he allows himself a glance; her skirt just barely decent, the straps of her stockings visible, the curve of her rear and hips, swishing back and forth as she drinks.

It is such a pleasure to show off his girl. And it will be to show off his boy. Ser Jaime scratches behind her ears, knowing she feels warm and safe, subsumed into the delight of obedience. He skims an article wondering what he’ll do with her before they return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a GLBTQ and kink friendly coffee house in San Francisco, go where this yummy breakfast takes place:  
> http://www.wickedgrounds.com/  
> (There's good food, books, rope, cookies--and you or your friends can get coffee in a dog bowl if you choose.)
> 
> I've taken some artistic license, but it's still wonderful.


	7. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The delights of leisure.
> 
> A gracious visit.
> 
> An invitation.

Cersei yawns, stretching in the huge hotel bed, long enough that her immaculately pedicured feet don’t touch the end. It’s a delicious feeling and she sighs, stretching again, yawning, showing her white teeth in the dark room. Her lover and their cub are off presumably having breakfast and she’s perfectly happy to let Ser Jaime do so. She prefers her breakfast as brunch and best served on an immaculate tray.

Since no one is there to see, the lioness rolls over and over on the silk-finished sheets in utter pleasure, every nerve tingling and sparkling like strands of gold, so intense that Cersei feels like she gives her own light, like she is the sun rising in the darkness of that room, day’s herald, day’s queen. She purrs in deep, quiet satisfaction. 

There is a tap at the door; Cersei’s head swivels sharply to the front sitting room and the door, for a moment not sure if she’ll need to attack or make firm complaint about inexcusably poor service at the Fairmont. The tap repeats in a particular pattern only she knows. She slips on a gold silk robe and goes to greet whoever is there. 

The first thing Cersei sees is immaculately woven green braids crowning the head bowed before her, body in an elegant dip, a perfect bow. The girl stands up with her silver tray, Cersei noting her crisp black and white houndstooth suit, the dainty emeralds on chains in the top cartilage of each ear. Cersei nods, the girl glides in smooth as a ship through calm waters, the straight seams of her perfect Cuban heel stockings, her dark jade patent heels. When she’s placed her tray on the low table before the leather sofa, the girl stands at attention, ready to spring into any action Cersei might wish. Cersei takes another moment to look at her, admiring her poise. She is fine work indeed; she may be a servant but Cersei knows this girl will suffer no fools, will not bend her knee to any but those deserving of it.  
Cersei likes it.

Cersei’s hands move in an elegant series of motions: _Well done_ Cersei signs, _I am pleased. Thank you._ The green girl bows from the waist, a shaft of light glinting on the heavy silver hardware on her emerald leather collar. She places an envelope with swirls of calligraphy in Cersei’s hands, stands back up and waits to be dismissed. Cersei does, noting the crisp precision of her farewell bow, the silent closure of the room’s door, the deep silence outside not even marred by a single footstep.

Cersei walks to the sofa, turns on the softest lamp. The envelope is heavy paper, rich and pale as cream with a black wax seal. Cersei cracks it open, stretching to conquer the entire sofa so she can read and lounge in peace.

_We hope this finds you well and enjoying your visit. It is a pleasure and an honor to have you in our city. San Francisco is made brighter by your presence._

The words are like sinking into a warm bath, Cersei sighing, skin sparking again from the leather, the silk of her robe, the soft scent of lavender clinging to her hair.

_At your leisure, there is a cell phone awaiting you at the concierge; the bringer of this note will be at your disposal as you wish during your stay. She is one of our finest with skills as diverse as advanced butler training, krav maga, diplomacy, personal assistance, blade work and deep tissue massage. Please enjoy her as we do._

Cersei finds this intriguing, arches a perfect brow as she reads on.

_You and any appropriate retinue are welcome at the society at any time. We look forward to your presence at high tea. It has been too long since we have seen our sunlit lioness and the beauty of her fangs. Welcome. Welcome. Welcome._

_Yours in service and yours in strength,_

_M. Jacqueline_

_Samois House_  
_San Francisco_

The Lannister queen allows herself to smile, relax into the cushions. Samois house is a holdfast, no one comes in or goes out unless invited. Cersei likes it that way, enjoys that security awaiting her and Sansa. 

Cersei thinks Sansa will find the house as delightful as she does, though perhaps for different reasons. The thought brings another unexpected smile as she thinks how pretty her red girl will look beside the jade-crowned girl. And the others-- _like a jewel box_ , Cersei thinks, locked up safe. She looks at the letter one last moment before she prepares for her bath.

_Post. Script: The coffee is as you prefer. We trust you enjoy fresh croissants; her pastry is exquisite._

Cersei looks at the silver tray; a jet-rimmed china plate covered by a rich snowy napkin. Now Cersei’s catching the buttery, delicious scent while admiring the knife-sharp pleats of her white-edged black napkin. She lifts the china cup from its ebony saucer, sips. It is as she likes; the sharp bite of black coffe with a ghost of sugar swirling up within. 

Loveliest of all, it is still hot.


	8. Back for Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends.
> 
> New friends.
> 
> Meetings arranged.

In the morning, the taqueria is easy, comfortable, the scents of grilling meats, lime, oil,melon for agua fresca, the sugar rice cinnamon sweetness of the horchata in big jugs by the cashier. The cashier smiles, his white teeth reflected in the rainbow oilslick of his customer’s round sunglasses. The customer wishes him a pleasant day in perfect Spanish, takes the brown paper bag and starts to stroll along the sidewalk.  
Crossing the street, an impatient motorist late to get to his startup yells  
“This isn’t a damn parade.”  
even through there’s a green light.  
Slight toss of ink-black curls, roll of hips, sparkle and black and elegantly balanced bag of food.  
On the contrary, it is.  
So, with the green light, the crossing’s a runway for every single minute and all the commuter can do is hiss.  
He couldn’t handle this.  
On the sidewalk, black jeans painted on, shimmering silver hanky and keys on the right, black leather jacket studded with bright pins, “DON’T DREAM IT BE IT” painted in florid white script on the right sleeve, Beardsley’s Salome kissing her Jonkaan on the left. The commuters in office wear pause to look, turning from their coffees as do the used bookstore owners putting out their wooden signs.

Electrifying, this beauty, everyone briefly imagines what those soft lips might feel like on theirs, what it might be like to nibble on those ears studded with tiny jewels and chains, gold and platinum mixed with single rhinestones, how it would feel run their fingers through those myrrh and honey scented onyx curls all the way past those black leather shoulders.

Those tight black jeans, those hip rolls; they warrant their own thoughts. Perhaps why there are so many blushes, so many side glances.

They’re sometimes rewarded with a wink behind the glasses and a warm grin. 

The cause of this internal commotion smiles and continues, hips swinging, heavy black military boots with sparkling silver laces moving strong, yet the paper bag remains supported and perfectly still. 

A quick turn onto Folsom, morning light gilding the shuttered bars, the broken glass in the pavement sprinkled like glitter and confetti. Half-turn, swivel around the back of two alleys rich with the scent of sex and spilled beer.

The door is steel, immaculately painted white. No tagger would dare touch it. Keys are unsnapped from the right hip, the door creaks open. Inside, it’s lit only by strings of white lights, the flicker of a single candle behind the bar catching the amber lights in a sole glass of brandy, then the door at the back of the room past the slings and the pool table with attachment points  
(there’s one with cues and chalk and racks in the outer lounge. No one wants to break on scratched felt, after all.)  
and cages and any number of other things, but someone’s hungry. 

The bearer of good mornings and hot breakfast knocks on the inmost door with a heavily ringed hand, flashes of moonstone, amethyst, brass, silver.

“Come in. You know you’re welcome. Especially with _that_.”

The courier laughs, places the paper bag on the immaculate low birch table next to the French press of rich coffee. He shrugs off his jacket to reveal a black fishnet tank, pale, elegant skin underneath, leans the ivory angles of his cheekbones and lips in for a sensual kiss, another pair of pearl hands weaving through his black curls. Satin feels a soft black cashmere sweater, firm muscles, warmth--sheer pleasure.

“Morning, Ser.” A silky flourish of tongue designed to be seen. “Coffee always tastes better on your lips.”

There’s a low soft laugh, warm and velvet, wrapping itself around all that bare skin and he sits down.  
A pair of deep blue-violet eyes pierce his, an arched brow and another warm, gentle laugh and caress along his cheek. Satin breathes in the delicate scent of amber and blonde tobacco from the long strands of ash-blonde hair. He’s always found Ser Arthur intoxicating, as have many.

The Ser in question strokes Satin’s shoulder gently, his voice gentle, yet firm as he chuckles.

“No wonder you’re the most popular pretty thing, saucy Satin. You’d lap garlic off my tongue and say it tastes like honey. Minx.”

Satin laughs, curling onto the sofa next to his silver-haired darling. “ I love garlic. No need to lie.” 

“You are the sweetest hussy. We’re so lucky to have you.” Slim, tapered fingers pour him a cup of coffee, white bone china, the rim shining platinum like the star signet glittering on Ser Arthur’s right hand. Splash of whiskey in each from a silver flask and Satin unwraps the food.  
The nineteenth century silver is already on the low table.

“Not just a hussy, an angel. Chilaquiles.”

Satin grins at the pleasure of his ash and moonlight haired companion, silver fork and paper plate as Ser Arthur elegantly lifts a bite to his lips, savors it. “Truckers and three-am-drunks can’t be wrong. Bliss. Here, take this.”  
Satin takes his own heavy embossed fork, grabs a bite of tortilla, egg, salsa, greasy, spicy, luscious with the spiked coffee.  
They eat companionably. 

“I heard your boy’s back in town.” Satin’s been intrigued by this golden curiousity. The rumor mill reached him even before Ser Arthur told him. It’s Satin’s job to keep an ear out everywhere from Mr. S. to the fitting rooms at Dark Garden to back alleys in the Tenderloin. 

“He is.” Ser Arthur raises his coffee to firm, sensual lips, then puts his arm around Satin. “You’ll catch a cold in that thing. Don’t make me send you to bed with warm soup and orange juice.” Satin enjoys the feel of the black cashmere sweater, Ser Arthur’s supple, solid fingers on his shoulder. 

“So, minx. He’s bringing us something special.”

Satin’s ears perk up. 

Ser Arthur grins. “Missed that, did you? Are you slipping or has some pretty thing caught your eye when you should be listening?” Ser Arthur undoes the velvet tie, musses Satin’s midnight curls. “Can’t blame you. Lots of them in town this week.” 

Satin makes a show of enduring the caress though he leans back into it, smiling with the feel of those fingers in his hair.

Ser Arthur leans back on the leather couch, enjoying a morning snuggle, the last crisp, oily bite of chilaquiles and watching Satin squirm from curiosity. 

“Ser Jaime’s bringing his boy.”

“Really?” Satin is interested.  
“Very pretty. Redhead. Marks well, very obedient.” Ser Arthur laughs. “He sassed me enough that he’s made sure to have a very good one. I hope she’s gotten a few good ones on him. He understands how I felt now. “ Ser Arthur chuckles, scratches idly at Satin’s brow, the silver forks tossed over the empty plate.

“She?” 

“Oh yes. She’s a special boy, indeed.” Ser Arthur sighs.

“Wish our brother could have met her. Shara was the first one like her here; the straight clubs didn’t like her because she played too hard, too strange, but beautiful. You would have liked Shara, everyone did. Such a wicked brother she was, too--if that sling could talk.”

Ser Arthur’s eyes are wistful.

“Who is remembered, lives.” murmurs Satin, like a prayer. 

“That’s true. She’s always here when we are; Shara always hoped the Seven Heavens would smell like leather and Crisco.“  
Ser Arthur laughs.  
“She loved smelling like that too, though she always smelled like Joy underneath. Glorious. “

“Our brothers aren’t like other people.”

“We wouldn’t have them any other way.” replies Satin. 

A chuckle and a tug at his hair. “Satin, you’re everyone’s brother.”

Satin grins. “And Daddy, if that’s what you like. “

Ser Arthur snorts. “ My house. I’m Daddy here.”

Satin curls under Ser Arthur’s arm. “And now your golden boy’s come home. Regular family reunion around here.” He chuckles as the older man strokes his cheek. 

“And I know you don’t want to miss a minute, sweetling. So clear your little black book for tomorrow night--you may want to keep it free next day too if this redhead’s as firey as Ser Jaime says.”

Ser Arthur’s fingers tighten in Satin’s hair. 

Satin purrs, his lips warm at Ser Arthur’s ear:

“I think Ser’s fingers are itching for a cane. Bet you want to see how much this boy can take.”

 

“Don’t presume anything, pretty creature. I need to see for myself--then decide. Patience is a knightly virtue, you know.” Ser Arthur playfully tugs an ebony curl. “You, my dear Satin, lack some--but I did too, at your age. A bit of rashness is to be expected.”

Ser Arthur’s eyes sparkle deep blue, then violet as he sighs.

“Besides, Ser Jaime and I must renew our acquaintance--though I’m certain we’ll get along just beautifully. Always did. “

There’s a comfortable silence, Satin half-asleep in the warm room, full, content, pleased and comforted with Ser Arthur’s arm around him. 

Ser Arthur lets himself relax for a moment, being present--no concern about any quibbles among the brothers, how much beer to order, who’s doing the service of cleaning the floors and tables this week, just a beautiful morning with good company. He sighs, breathing in and out slowly, fully there, aware of his body tip of head to toes in smooth black leather slippers, the softness of his sweater, the warmth of Satin’s breath. 

He tells his boys that they must learn to be in the moment; Ser Arthur’s own secret is that it is something he practices every day. Ser Arthur knows he needs to be calm and guiding, steady and bright as the evening star, worthy as those who have come before him--

but one should never waste a cuddle with a beautiful hustler either. 

Ser Arthur smiles softly. huggng Satin a bit closer.

Satin’s long black lashes brush his cheek as he drowses, making him look like a china doll, a prince in a song. Half asleep he murmurs. 

“Are you concerned about Ser Jaime’s boy?”

“Ser Jaime wouldn’t bring me anything but a superlative boy. Just as you wouldn’t bring me anything but a superlative breakfast.”

Satin laughs. “That’s right. I have standards to maintain. You’d be surprised how many of them have breakfast involved.”

“That’s why you’re so good and you know it.” Satin clears the table, tidies, pours fresh coffee into the bone china cup. Ser Arthur stands to wrap his arms warmly around Satin, kiss him on the lips and cheek. 

“You’d best hurry. I know you’re busy.”

“Have an eleven o’ clock at the Fairmont. Nooners are getting earlier and I need to put on my business drag.” Satin groans. “Rather spend hours putting on latex honestly, but no one looks twice at someone in a suit at fancy hotel. Good for me.” He grins.  
“I’ll even get out the chunky glasses. Nerd chic.”  
Satin raises an eyebrow. “I found the _naughtiest_ thing in the comic shop, Ser!", his eyes wide in mock surprise.

Ser Arthur laughs, gently cuffs Satin on the shoulder. “Go on then. And if they don’t tip you something sweet they’re damn fools. Hope your nooner at least has a Bellini. It’s still brunch.”

“I’ll settle for a couple hundred in tips, though free drinks always taste the sweetest.” Satin kisses Ser Arthur on the forehead. “Then I’m making my rounds.”

“You’re the neighborhood cat, you naughty thing. Not that I mind.”

Satin raises an eyebrow. “So you don’t mind a bit of...”

Ser Arthur shushes Satin firmly, even as his wine-dark eyes sparkle. “We stay open minded. That’s how our brotherhood lasts.”

Satin laughs. “And I love it. See you tomorrow.”

“Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“Perfect.” Satin shrugs on his leather, settles the sunglasses at a becoming angle on his face.

Ser Arthur regards the Castro’s loveliest rent-boy with a bemused smile.  
“Never lose that strut. That’s your weapon.”

“And yours?

Ser Arthur laughs. “You know mine.” Ser Arthur takes his long, graceful fingers, brushes them against Satin’s alabaster cheek to remove one stray speck of dirt. “Perfect. Run along now.”

Satin turns to head out, head cocked just so, hips thrust as he walks, knowing he’s a pleasure to watch. Ser Arthur smiles, lets him go, then speaks.

“And Satin?”

He turns to look at Ser Arthur lounging on the couch.

“Bring migas for me tomorrow morning. And your finest outfit in the evening.”

Satin kisses Ser Arthur’s hand, then walks out through the bar. All the while, Satin’s planning what vintage cufflinks to wear with his business drag. As he closes and locks the white door, his mind buzzes with interest as to the golden boy, the tall redhead. Hot, sharp thoughts of Ser Arthur’s canes twist in his brain like perfumed smoke and even clever Satin’s dizzied.

Satin can’t wait till tomorrow.


	9. Matinee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Experimental theatre.  
> Artistic passions.  
> Sweet repose.

The girls kiss furiously in their long cherry-red wigs, the stagehands in black squirting them full force with garden hoses till their acrylic hair is tangled with tattered red, blue, yellow, violet flower scraps, their shifts now sheer and clinging to their lush bodies. 

The chorus chants:

“Did you miss me?  
Come and kiss me.  
Never mind my bruises,  
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices  
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,  
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.  
Eat me, drink me, love me;  
Jonquil, make much of me;  
LOVE ME! LOVE ME! LOVE ME!”

 

and like that as the girls devour one another, tonguing fiercely in the spotlight. They fall to the ground in a pool of water and flowers one arched over the other, flash of sparkling black straps around pale hips, then sweet, sweet moans.  
An explosion of glitter falls to the stage coating them in rainbow shimmers, spattering in diamond splinters near the front row of uncomfortable metal seats

and with straddles, splashes and gasping the production comes to a close.

Sansa’s jumping up and clapping, her full black skirt ringing like a bell around her long legs, her cream blouse sheer and yet demure, black fascinator tilted to the side on the garnet waves of her hair. She’s applauding and cheering so much even the gold padlocks on the patent ankle straps of her black heels swing and sparkle, like her body’s made of glitter itself.

Cersei sits, applauding politely, her eyes gracious chips of green ice, her head aching from the smoke machine and the hideous folding chairs. With every slap of her hands she imagines a stroke against her girl’s lusciously curved bottom and then the afternoon matinee has become perfectly bearable. With a shudder she moves her golden crocodile pump away from a drip of water laden with mascara and glitter.  
That splash came dangerously close to her Birkin. Next time she’ll insist they sit further back. 

(Cersei didn't even sigh when Sansa came scampering up with the flyer that included the phrase "Performance Collective." Those sparkling sapphire eyes. Her darling minx. )

Cersei’s glad that next time it’s her turn to choose the entertainment; and it will _not_ be Six Maids in A Pool Queer Performance Collective’s production of _Jonquil Loves Jonquil._

Cersei approves wholeheartedly of redheaded girls in lesbian embraces; just not a crowded, damp-scented performance space with wheatgrass juice and vegan snacks.  
Certainly not back-breaking folding chairs and their screeching metal.

 

San Francisco’s opera house has elegant chandeliers, perfect acoustics, champagne in silver buckets with ice; the perfect setting for Sansa in vintage ivory Dior crusted with pearls, Cersei in sleek onyx Yves St. Laurent and Deco fox stole, jeweled brides in a Faberge egg. 

Cersei allows herself a flush of pleasure at that image.

Besides, she’ll have a gold remote control hidden in the palm of her black kidskin opera glove. Cersei smiles a real, rich smile at the thought of what her little dove will do in the middle of an aria, a delicate press of the button...

Cersei is sure the velvet on the seats can be cleaned.

Suddenly the ragtag production has a certain gauche charm after all--and Cersei can’t resist watching Sansa run up and hug the actresses, giggling excitedly, buying one inch buttons and stuffing her vintage lavender handbag with flyers for queercore bands and poetry readings.

Sansa smiles at her Queen and Cersei smiles back, a flicker around the lips, just for her. 

It’s a good thing she’s locked Sansa’s ankle straps. Cersei wouldn’t want Sansa to slip when she’s bent over after all.

Later, when Sansa’s had her cheeks starred with glittered pink lipstick and gotten all her damp hugs, Cersei takes her arm as they navigate the twilit street. The sky’s lit with lilac and rose and the city’s lights shine like the fairest crown. Sansa turns to look at Cersei, her eyes wide with delight--and Cersei realizes with a sudden crackle of joy--love.

(Cersei feels a wave of emotion inside her. She still doesn’t always know what to do when Sansa looks at her with that awe. It is like Sansa’s reaching out to her Queen, Sansa holding out her own flower-crowned beating heart like the saints and martyrs in Mission murals.  
Sansa thinks Cersei’s wonderful. Cersei wants to claw anyone who’d try to hurt her girl to shreds, be the fierce, glorious lioness that Sansa sees. There’s a golden, hot wind inside her and Cersei feels herself radiant, strong. She’s ready to take Sansa’s gift, just like she needs. Like they both need.)

Inside her smooth marble body, Cersei quivers and there’s only one thing to do.

The alley is starred with sparkling glass in the pavement, the brick wall is harsh and rough. _Yes._ Cersei thinks. _Yes._

Sansa twitches in excitement, turns her head, her ruby hair spilling over her shoulder like a doll, a pin-up, the angel of femmes in the vivid red Nars lipstick that Cersei painted on her lips before they left for the theatre.

Cersei breathes deep, settles herself. A sharp, sweet smile and she’s ready too.

“Hands on the wall, sweetling. Now.”

Sansa breathes hard and fast, her face flushing pink as she bends, the curve of her hips and ass silky, devastatingly lovely, spreading her legs for her Queen. Cersei grins.

With a practiced motion,Cersei flips Sansa’s skirt, tucks it into the waistband, watching her girl shiver in the evening breeze. Cersei doesn’t need the dim light to know that Sansa’s melting, her thighs slick. She so enjoys being shown off. 

Cersei likes showing her off. Moving behind her, Cersei presses her body hard against her girl’s, feeling Sansa soften under her, pressing back, a tiny wriggle to her hips and Cersei’s proud that Sansa’s standing tall in her locked heels.

“Aren’t you a naughty girl?” Cersei breathes hotly in Sansa’s ear. “I saw you with those girls. You know how they were looking at you.” Sansa moans, her face flushed, her heart pounding.  
Cersei knows. She always does.  
It makes her smile..  
“Yes, little slutling. Looked at you like you were a sweet piee of cake and they were so hungry.” Cersei’s leather gloved hand reaches between Sansa’s legs, finds her pearl and works it between her thumb and forefinger, stroking, up and down and round. Sansa groans from deep inside. “Bet you wanted them to kiss you, play with you--I saw that party invitation, you wicked little thing.” Sansa’s whole body quakes as she murmurs “My Lady, My Lady, My Lady.” like a prayer in the near dark, her gloved hands rubbing against the bricks.

“Ahh. You remembered. How sweet.” Cersei pinches at Sansa’s rosy petals, soothes it, pinches again, over and over. “That’s right. You’re mine. My girl.” Cersei growls low in her throat, wanting to mark her, suck red circles onto her neck, mark her ivory body with her teeth and claws--

but Sansa’s wanted for the next night, her skin pale and sweet for whatever might happen with Ser Jaime and his Sworn Brothers. Cersei smiles inside, though her face is calm. She’ll get the pleasure of adding her own marks when she has Sansa tell her every detail. Cersei will be sure that Ser Jaime rolls Sansa’s pearl between his teeth while their girl tries to tell of her adventures, trying to make her lose track of her story and then---

but Cersei’s here right now. She’s running her hands over Sansa’s ass, rubbing the soft places on the inside of her thighs, all those sweet spots that Cersei knows as she knows her own. She nuzzles her cub’s neck, letting her golden hair wash over Sansa’s shoulders as she presses against her.

“Can’t mark you. But I’m going to remind you whose you are. In case your mind wanders again.”

Sansa pants, rubbing her head against her Queen’s.

“Anyone could see us. Anyone. See you spread out like a whore, begging to be fucked. You do, don’t you?” Cersei purrs low and sweet into Sansa’s ear, feeling her body tingle, only thinking of being inside her girl.

“Yesyesyes.” Sansa gasps, too far gone for words, only want, pure hunger. 

Cersei reaches into her soft leather bag, slides out a gold case. Sansa moans as she hears the click of the case, then the snap of a glove, then the soft caress of latex on her thighs. She’s soft as silk, warm, delicious. Later Cersei will savor her in nips and bites on her pale skin after the Sworn Brothers have their taste, because she’s kind to her brother, only he can share their toy, their love.

For now, Sansa's all Cersei’s.

“Someone didn’t get taken in the alley today like she wished for, did she? Poor dear.”  
Sansa shivers, pants, grinds hard at her lady.  
“Silly sweet thing. We take care of you, don’t we? I keep you well guarded, too.”

Cersei reaches to toy with Sansa’s pearl, finding her drenched.

“I’m going to take care of you. As you should be. Girl.”

Cersei presses against Sansa’s curved body, puts her hand on her waist as Sansa whimpers with delight. “Please. Please.” Sansa whispers in joy. Cersei can’t wait any longer and slides inside, sighing in pleasure, growling at the feel of her rosy cunt, hot and slick, taking her deep, gripping at her knuckles and it’s Cersei’s knees who nearly buckle, heart pounding in her chest.  
All she can do is fuck now, pressing inside her girl, fucking hard and fierce, suddenly only blood and flesh and pure joy, Sansa spread below her, Cersei her beloved conqueror.  
“Mine.” Cersei whispers. “All mine.”  
She doesn’t give a damn who sees, let them stare, let them see the ferocity of their love, her claim, Sansa’s joy, the way she moves when she’s under her queen.  
Cersei thrusts and thrusts, good and hard like her girl loves, rubbing her fingertips on the soft rough spot that makes Sansa squeal. When Sansa throws her head back to howl out her climax, not caring who hears, her hair flies loose, strands of ruby and gold float up, then cling to her face, jeweled damp with sweat.

Between her pale legs, Sansa drips diamonds onto her silk stockings. 

Cersei wriggles her fingers one last time, then slides them out, reaching round to hold Sansa close, smearing her blouse with crystalline strands. Her lips smear Sansa’s ear with red, her tongue traces the gentle, familiar curves of her ear, nipping at the Cartier pearl earring, though her little cub’s ears are lovely unadorned too. Like any tender maiden, Sansa swoons into her lover’s arms, nuzzling at her Lady’s neck.

“Mmmmmmmm.” Sansa sighs, rubbing against Cersei’s body, wanting just a bit more, but too worn out, only able to work her hips to make the pleasure last. Cersei slides kisses over Sansa’s forehead, leaving the trail of a red star, then gently untucks her skirt, then lets Sansa turn, surrenders in turn to her joyous kisses. “LoveyoumyLady, loveyou.” It’s the sweetest song.

A press on Cersei’s slim rose gold phone and the car’s there, Sansa lying in her Lady’s lap all the way to the Fairmont dozing, her fascinator slid over her eyes, arms wrapped around Cersei’s waist. Cersei can feel Sansa’s smile on her thigh. She ruffles her girl’s hair and in the evening, allows herself a full, white-toothed smile.

Cersei enjoys the roll of the hills, watching the city lights shimmer. Later, Sansa will bathe her and after that, she’ll thank her Queen in the sweetest way and oh, how Cersei’s grateful for that wicked, sweet tongue. All of her, all of her really, tip to toe, the way her eyes sparkle at girls in gaudy wigs, the gracious way she kneels and the way Sansa curls into Cersei's arms when she’s sleepy.

Cersei’s lipstick is smudged.

Since she’s holding her girl, for once she doesn’t fix it. All that matters is that moment, the soft motion of the car like a cloud, the afternoon with Sansa, the pulse of her heart, Sansa breathing in loyalty, breathing out love warm on Cersei’s skin.

The matinee was perfect, really. Simply perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quoted passage is from Christina Rosetti's "Goblin Market", modified with 'Jonquil'."


	10. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn breaks.  
> Sansa worries.  
> All rest.

Sansa’s eyes pop open. Suddenly, brightly awake in the dark hotel bedroom, the tiny slivers of dawn slipping between the curtains, silvering a chair, a bed, what she knows is Ser Jaime’s black leather bag of toys and she shivers. Curiosity, excitement, a spice of fear and a spike of worry. Sansa wonders if she can do well tonight after all, what’s going to happen, worries that she’ll look too much like a girl or not enough and what if she falls or can’t take enough--  
(and mixed with that, a honeyed wave of heat at what could happen. Ser had said there were clamps and cuffs on a pool table. Crosses. Benches. And with a fierce green wink Ser mentioned _slings_. “Crisco, too, of course. Need something nice and thick. Just like you always need something nice and thick, right sweetling?”  
When she’d had to hand him the rosy lace triangle of her underwear it was soaked. Ser Jaime had grinned, rubbed it softly before slipping it in his pocket. In front of her, he’d slowly licked one finger, his eyes burning into hers as he savored. Sansa had flushed and squirmed until he held out his other fingers and gratefully, she took them into her mouth, tonguing her Ser clean as he finished his coffee.  
“Good boy.” he’d whispered, leaning into kiss her, his lips coffee, sweet, salt, his golden hair like rough silk under her fingers, the crown to their morning. Then Sansa knew things would be all right.)  
Now she’s nervous again, twisting in the sheets, Ser Jaime mumbling in his sleep, holding her close like she’s his best soft toy, rolling his hips to make sure Cersei’s spooned up behind him, her arm over his shoulder.  
Sansa wriggles again, her stomach in knots. Ser Jaime grips harder, awake now, his breath burning at her cheek.  
“If the hotel isn’t under attack, Daddy’s going to be very upset.”  
His low snarl makes Sansa suddenly want to giggle. Keeping it in makes her chest shake and him hold her tighter, to stop her writhing.  
“Serious. I know you wouldn’t actually be waking me, could you, sweetling?”  
“No.” whispers Sansa, rubbing her head against him, breathing in the spices, honey musk of his body, dark and rich in the warmth of their bed. Like a wave, motion ripples through them and Sansa knows Cersei’s gripping her brother, her love tightly too.  
Cersei likes being woken even less.

“Sleep.” her Ser whispers in Sansa’s ear, one hand stroking her breasts to belly, slowly, just as she likes. “Busy day. Lots to do for tonight.”  
Sansa quickly stiffens, then quivers at _tonight_. Then she feels Ser Jaime nuzzle at her neck in the darkness and she’d know his touch anywhere, anytime. His hand moves between her legs, Sansa lightly parting them so he can caress, enjoy what’s his. She feels sweet and drifting. his large but deft fingers soothing her, relaxing her body and mind.  
“I’ll be proud of you always. No matter what happens. And you’ll be wonderful. We know that.”  
His hand moves back, his arm returned under her breasts. Both of them feel Cersei shift, fling her arm around her brother’s waist, her hand now touching the edge of Sansa’s hip. Sansa feels Ser Jaime’s chest shake with its own silent chuckle.  
“Sleep now. It’s a good thing your fidgeting didn’t wake me up, isn’t it?”  
A kiss to her ear, more warm breath and Sansa can tell he’s taking in the scent of her hair, comforting himself as he snuggles back to sleep, another kiss to Sansa, a squeeze to Cersei’s fingertips.  
Calmed, in their safe, dark den, Sansa drifts back to sleep, rocked by her Ser’s arms, the beat of his heart, the soft song of her Lady’s breath.  
It’s going to be a beautiful day. Sansa knows it in heart, body, the pulse of her blood.  
But first, sleep.


	11. Dressing for Pleasure, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our darlings get dressed.  
> Armor for adventure.  
> Adventure begins.

Sansa sits on the edge of the bed in her snowy robe. The bed seems like a white ocean, huge, with black boxes adrift on its waves. She’s brushed her teeth till they gleam. She’s showered.  
She’s tidy. Everywhere. It’s been seen to, Sansa’s been cleaned and polished, buffed bright on the outside with salt scrubs, sage and honey soap and silky oils, waxed till she gleams like a pearl. 

And then the inside. Ser only crinkled his lips into a small grin when he gave her what she needed and red-faced, Sansa had rushed into the bathroom. It’s not new it’s just--thorough. Very, very thorough. Sansa’s glad that’s done.  
When she’d come out, Ser Jaime had lifted his own glass, said there was a half bag of Dornish red for her if she’d like it, raised a golden eyebrow, teasing her, making her blush.  
(Sansa’s heard about that kind of thing, Ser’s hinted at it.) She glowed red as a candied cherry, trying to wrap her robe around her, still unable to resist a giggle as Ser Jaime tickled her, both of them scampering around the suite’s living room, nearly knocking over Napoleonic brass tables and a settee.  
“Stop it.” Cersei clicked her tongue at her brother, audible across the room from where she lounged barefoot on the cream sofa, gold brocade pumps kicked off, their red soles winking from the floor. “You’re not wasting my Dornish red on _that_. I’m certain there’s something from the Coppola vineyards that’s good enough.” She’d tossed her head, the golden arc of her hair swinging, punctuated it with a pointed sip from her own crystal goblet.  
“You’d have our girl use that? How déclassé, sweet sister. “ Ser Jaime sparred back, baring his teeth in a bone-white grin, his eyes sparkling emerald at his love, Sansa lifting her eyes just enough to see her lady Cersei biting back a grin while the rest of her face remained stern.  
“Enough of that. At any rate, you’re not to touch the wine.My wine.” Then Cersei smiled, her own eyes jade and wicked. “Unless it’s for other games, of course. Which I choose.” 

Ser Jaime had bowed exaggeratedly, somehow still gracious and elegant with a towel wrapped round his waist. “As my lady wishes, so shall it be done.” 

Cersei had rolled her eyes and smiled, pretending to be interested in the new season’s metallic tokars in Vogue Essos while Sansa hurried through to the other bedroom to dress.  
Ser Jaime winked at her, then hopped onto the sofa to rest his head on Cersei’s shoulder before his own preparations.

Sansa’s alone now with bed and boxes. Waiting.

Sansa knows the ways of crinolines, diamond-netted stocking tops, sweet-scented packages from Agent Provocateur that open to reveal wisps of silk, bright lace, everything to decorate her like spun sugar on a dainty cake. She’s used to heels, kitten to spike and all in between and all the little delicacies that make her Ser and Lady lick their lips. This is different.

She opens the matte black box, unwraps the heavy ebony paper, like unfurling night over the grand bed’s ivory cloud. Sansa breathes in and the scent rises like incense in a sept, but nothing in those censers has ever made her quiver like this.  
(There was that time in the Sept of Baelor however; there’s a reason Ser Jaime and Sansa always look forward to Maiden’s Day. They find that blend delightful and keep it on hand.)  
Leather is different, and that’s what this is; dark, rich and beautiful. It’s always made Sansa weak in the knees and she’s had radiant, ecstatic times diving to caress her Ser’s boots with the tip of her pink tongue, when she’s allowed to nuzzle at her Lady’s gold and oxblood corset. This is a wave, breaking over her head in awe and pleasure and excitement.

Sansa looks over the clothing, lifts the shorts. She feels the heaviness and sleekness of the black hide, notices the zipper running end to end. She could be unwrapped like a gift. Perhaps she is one. For her Ser. For someone. There’s a cold dash of nerves, a jostle to her stomach, all off balance.  
Sansa pulls out the rest and sits on the bed, everything whirling inside her. It’s all so new. Ser’s told her what he needs, it’s all things she’s already been taught with a few dabs of manners. He’s told her with a kiss to the ear that she’s respectful and sweet and she’ll do beautifully. It will be new, an adventure and Ser assures her, very pleasurable. 

Over in the other room, Sansa hears the low laughter of Ser Jaime and Cersei, then Ser Jaime whistling “Six Maids in A Pool. She already knows his leather’s black too, that it will be polished till it shines like black glass.  
She hasn’t had to do that. Yet.  
Ser’s said she’ll meet the bootblacks at the bar.

Sansa looks in the mirror, naked as her nameday. Two starry blue eyes, creamy skin, flaming red hair still slightly damp from its washing.  
Suddenly she’s at a loss, her ebony skins lying on the bed around her. Everything feels strange.  
There’s no makeup, no jewels tonight. Sansa feels stripped. It’s the quickest thing in the world to get ready now and the slowest.  
What do boys do for evenings out?  
Sansa’s not even sure she’ll be able to drink beer properly. Mugs are heavy, cocktail glasses are delicate and light.  
She might drop something.  
Sansa looks at the black leather collar with its silver rounded studs which she’d squealed over and now...she’s suddenly not ready to be brave.  
What if she shames her Ser? What if they don’t like her? What if her Lady doesn’t...?  
Sansa sits down on the bed, her chest tight, not willing to cry over new clothes, new things, wanting to let herself go, to trust like she does when she kneels, when she presses her lips to a polished instep, knowing that she’s safe, that under their boots she can fly.  
Sansa closes her eyes for a moment, breathes in and out slowly, quietly trying to make her inside match her breath. She feels a cool hand on hers, catches a delicate scent of lavender over the leather. Her eyes still closed, she leans into a silk-clad shoulder she knows well. Sansa feels long slender fingers stroking her hair as she sighs softly. 

“My little dove.” Cersei whispers, brushing her lips over Sansa’s russet hair. Sansa doesn’t need to speak but just listens, her Lady’s voice as comforting as the waves of the Sunset Sea.  
“Ours is ours. You’re mine just as you are Jaime’s. Even now. Always.”  
Sansa sighs, letting Cersei’s voice entrance her.  
“Anything or anyone that touches you is a tool in my hand, in your Ser’s hand. In obeying and pleasing them, you please me. You please him. You please us. I know you know who you belong to. You know who you belong to.”  
“Yes.” says Sansa, the word solid and strange in her mouth.  
“Open your eyes.”

Sansa sees her Lady with a silver tray, a roast beef sandwich, crusts trimmed off. “Eat. At least six bites.” Cersei’s viridian stare means that this is a non-negotiable meal. Spreading a white napkin over her naked knees, Sansa chokes down three bites, then discovers she’s hungry. While she’s eating, she hears the pop of a can, the soft fizz of liquid in the air.  
A pink can of champagne, with a bright pink straw. Cersei proffers it to her, half-smiling.  
“Drink. Just this one, then water.”  
Sansa feels a happy quiver in her stomach; her Lady sighs at the gaucherie of hot pink cans of champagne with their tiny party-bright straws.  
Sansa loves them.  
The sight of the rosy can in her Lady’s well-manicured hand makes Sansa smile, feel a warmth suffuse her that can’t be matched by the champagne. The bubbly wine helps though and Sansa’s soon eaten the entire sandwich, Cersei dusting the crumbs away from her mouth.  
“There. Sit down. He’s preening.”  
(Cersei stifles a grin at her love adjusting the chaps over his perfectly ironed Levis, adjusting the golden curves of his hair to look perfect against the leather vest, the crisp white tee. However, he’ll be there a while.)

So, Cersei braids her girl’s hair. Her pale, elegant fingers with their red oval nails weave a simple four strand plait, tidy, yet attractive, not a spark of ruby hair out of place. Sansa slides on the tall, functional knee socks, slips into the shorts and motorcycle boots, lets her Lady tend to her face.  
Cersei holds a tiny gold compact. There’s a familiar scent. Sansa’s puzzled, has never seen her Lady use this.  
“My secret.” murmurs Cersei, taking a tiny dab of the clear jelly to gloss Sansa’s lips. “Open,” and Sansa does, her Lady swiping the tiniest bit of Vaseline across her top teeth.  
Sansa touches the tip of her tongue to the gleaming whiteness. “No licking it off. You’ll have a lovely smooth smile.” Sansa suddenly doesn’t need it to grin, noticing it is silky, how gently her lips move. Cersei rubs a bit between her fingertips, motions for Sansa to close her eyes. When she opens them again, there’s a bit of light warming her face, a slight stickiness on her eyelids.  
“A little shine is good. Sends any bit of light right to your eyes, especially in dim places.” Cersei smoothes the top of Sansa’s head, Sansa feeling like it’s made of firm red silk. “You’ll know more as things go on. There’s boys with more makeup than you or me.”  
Cersei’s laugh is so like her brother’s that Sansa wonders for a moment if he’s walked in, then knows it’s simply how it is, that her loves share voices now and then. Right now, it’s a comfort, a blessed joyful one.  
“My good girl.” Cersei kisses the top of Sansa’s forehead, careful not to leave a mark. “Go be a good boy.” Sansa’s left in shorts and boots, bare-chested. “Your Ser will see to that; we know he’s sentimental.” Sansa hugs her Lady carefully, the silk of Cersei’s dress liquid sweetness against her skin. “You’ll come back to me. Don’t worry.” Cersei smiles a secret smile, one for the two of them. “We all come back to each other. Always. Nothing keeps us apart, nothing will. “  
Wordlessly, Sansa hugs her Lady tightly, listening to the beat of her golden heart.  
“Be a good boy.”  
And with that whisper, Cersei’s gone. 

Then Ser Jaime’s there, walking in. Sansa catches her breath; her Ser looks so noble, clad in black leather like armor, shining, heady scented, keys jingling on his left hip, a chain lead coiled next to it.  
The clasp fits Sansa’s collar. She’s joyous about that.  
Ser Jaime’s smile is broad, delighted. “Such a luscious boy. They’ll be smitten.”  
Sansa blushes and Ser Jaime hugs her close, her face pressed to his midnight leather vest. “My lovely boy.” he purrs into her ear.  
He slips the harness over her chest, the ring settling between her bare breasts, the straps crossing in a black and chrome X, sharp and dark against her pale skin. “Mmmm.” Ser Jaime sighs, looking at her like she’s a perfect treat.  
“We’re going to have such a good time.”  
“Good, Ser.” whispers Sansa. “We will.”  
Both of their smiles are bright with relief and excitement. Despite the new place, it’s them, just like it always is, like it always shall be, boy or Ser or girl or Master or Daddy or sister or brother, always.  
Just them.

Without being told Sansa kneels, feels the heavy collar with its silver studs weighted around her neck, the snap of the gold lock, because even in leather and chrome her Ser’s always a Lannister. She rests her cheek against his knee, his hand on her shoulder, their circle complete in devotion and trust.  
After a moment’s breath, Ser Jaime strokes her hair, lifts her up to kiss her forehead.  
“Ready to go, sweetest boy?”  
“Yes, Ser.” Sansa says with a sudden flush of pride, pink-cheeked and brave.  
“Well. Off we go, then.”  
He pulls a black wool cardigan over her harness to walk through the hall. Ser Jaime looks into her eyes and she looks back to his, Ser Jaime’s burning wildfire bright. With the warm creak of worn leather, Ser Jaime offers his arm. Sansa grabs onto the sleeve of his biker jacket and off they go, into the car and into the mysteries of the San Francisco night.


	12. With My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust.  
> Taken.  
> New worlds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The leathermen change "boy" to "boi" on purpose. Since it indicates genderqueerness and genderfuck (which Sansa and Ser Jaime are doing:)), that's what I'll use from now on. Ser Jaime was not caught up on the current terminology because he was too busy doing filthy things. He'll learn.
> 
>  
> 
> Some info on the term boi:  
> http://nonbinary.org/wiki/Boi

“Take off the sweater.” Sansa wakes from the nodding, gentle rest she’s had in the cab, opens her eyes to look at Ser Jaime, his eyes shimmering emerald under the rim of his black leather cap. They’re beautiful. Serious. Sansa doesn’t hesitate, but undoes each button with fingers that only shake a little bit, shrugs it off her bare shoulders to her lap, re-buttons it, folds it and passes it to her Ser. The driver doesn’t even notice her bare chest, simply snarls at the traffic, takes an exit.   


Ser Jaime takes Sansa’s hands, pale and elegant in his. His firm grip makes Sansa’s heart beat faster though she keeps her breath calm. His eyes burn into hers, flickering in the headlights and streetlights in the dark. “Do you trust me?” The air feels like the air before a storm, heavy, suddenly deep with solemnity. Ser Jaime isn’t smiling or joking, just looking at her. Sansa doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Yes, with my life.” The hint of a smile flickers around his lips. “Good.”  “Be brave, no matter what is asked of you.”  The cab screeches to a halt amid the warehouses, the sulfur yellow of the lights over empty sidewalks.  


 “Get out.” Sansa opens her door, her heart pounding, trying to calm the jolt of fear, glad of the flat, heavy-treaded soles of her black boots since she won’t fall on the sidewalk.  
Ser Jaime leans over, removes the phone and key from her pocket. 

Sansa’s heart is suddenly in her mouth but she stands tall as she can, shivering from the cold, the damp breath of the fog chilling her nipples to hard red beads.  
 She’s gracious and beautiful, her head held high, though her veins feel like they pump pure adrenaline instead of blood, illuminating her body like lightning. She feels dizzy, wants to crumble but she won’t.   


A brush of lips to her cheek, a whispered “Good boy.” then the slam of the car door and the cab speeds off.  


 

Sansa is aghast, barely able to breathe. She hasn’t been alone in a strange place since she can remember, hasn’t been without the protection of one of her lions. Her whole body feels nude, chilled through the shorts, boots, stockings, the hardware on the chest harness suddenly ice on her snowy skin. She can’t even wrap herself in her veil of ruby hair since it’s bound back. Sansa desperately wants to cry but she will not, she is brave and armored with all of her courtesies even if tonight she’s a boy. Black and white and red, leather, skin and hair like a princess in a fairy tale, Sansa stands tall and strong in the jaundiced halo of the sodium light.  


  _I trust you. With my life._  
 

The hand over her mouth steals her breath, leaves her lips tasting, touching leather, her eyes wide for a moment, before the darkness of what feels like a black bag over her head, dark. Sansa moves her hands behind her back, feels the click of forged steel cuffs--and so she's bound. In the dark she feels fear--and twining up her spine, twisting through her nerves, the crackle of anticipation, bright as tiny stars. _Oh yes._  


 “Forward.”  
 Muffled curses from her captors, and she’s stepped up into a van, Sansa can tell since she slides down the back seat. Despite being snatched off the street, she still crosses her ankles heavy in her new boots.  


 “Silence. Sit still,boi. Or we’ll make you wish you had.”  


 Two men, one on either side, the hot scent of sweat and leather, hint of metal and chrome, hints of spice, cardamom, musk, unspeakable deliciousness. Sansa shakes on the inside but remains still and brave even as she feels the van start beneath her, starts traveling to a place so strange she never could have imagined it.

Instead she focuses on being there, present, tip to toe, even though her skin is goose-bumped from the cold. She shivers, feels one body press closer to her. “There, sweetling. Cuddle and warm up while you can.”  
Sansa’s grateful for the warmth.  
 “Don’t mind if I do.” murmurs a deeper voice from the other side. “By your leave, boi.” 

Sansa nods, afraid and desperately wanting to giggle at the same time at the thought of how ridiculous a nodding bag must look.

 “Mmmh. This boi is a pretty thing. Ser Jaime has good taste, I’ll give him that. Wouldn’t mind getting them over my knee--something that sweet and pale needs a bit of color, hmm?”  
 Sansa flushes hot, as the van lurches, nearly tipping into the lap of one of her companions. There’s a silky laugh. “Look, they’re already diving for my balls. Bet your Ser’s left you hungry--missing a taste of that golden cock, eh, boi?”  
 Sansa can’t help it but groans, suddenly aware of the wetness slicking the inside of her shorts, the roughness of the zipper on the soft petals intense, fiercely sparking her desire. Her mouth is dry, her heart beating madly, she’s afraid and still wet.  
  _Brave._ she thinks _brave._

A good boy for her Ser. And so Sansa straightens her spine, sits up straight, her chest thrust out as her Ser's shown her, even as she accepts the warmth of her companions.  
 “Don’t worry boi. We’ll make sure you’re warm.” Another laugh. “Red-hot, even.”  
Sansa feels the van lurch, up, downhill, twisting around the streets, taking what she’s sure are back roads till she feels shaken to the core, not sure even what’s up or down only that her Ser will be at the end of this. She hopes. She’s mostly sure. But. She won’t show fear. 

There’s a purr of the engine as it slows to a stop, parks. Sansa hears the door open, steps out, her captors being careful to help her step out blind with her hands still bound behind her back, one hand on each elbow. Like a dance, she lets them lead, her new boots clanking on metal stairs, the air chilling her skin.  
  _Do you trust me?  With my life ._

 _I do._  
Sansa-the-boi thinks.  
_I do._

 The knock is a thunderclap, ringing through metal. Then a voice.

 “Who goes there?” A warm, strong voice as Sansa strains to hear everything, electrifying her senses, shaking her to the core.   
“A boi in darkness, lost and without brothers, seeking brave companions.”   
“Has the boi been prepared and vouched for?”  
 “They have.”   
“Is the boi ready to face an ordeal?”   
“They are.”   
“Then let them come in and prove themselves worthy.”

 Three knocks booming through the metal of the door; Sansa hears it creak open. As her companions support her, Sansa steps across the threshold in her darkness, quivering with fear and excitement, but her steps are firm and strong.

 And so, Sansa steps into this new world, blind as a newborn babe, ready to become.


	13. The Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is brave.  
> Ser Arthur admires.  
> Commencement.

Becoming is a bit clumsier than Sansa expected; one of her escort walks quicker than she can manage and she stubs her toe which she even feels through the heavy engineer boots. There's a disgruntled _hmph_ and mumbled apology. The quick hint of pain in her toe is a reasonable distraction from the thrumming of her heart.  
Sansa can't decide if she's ill or excited, but she wants to find out for sure. She can't see but she can catch scents on the air; a dark sweaty muskiness, the lemony scent of oil soap (there must be a lot of woodwork and Sansa finds that her stomach growls at the scent, treacherously thinking of cake and reminded it's been a long time since she's eaten) and entwined about it all, leather and an icy sliver of chrome.  
This is a very different place than with her lions and Sansa's suddenly very aware of herself, how different she feels, even as her escorts steady her. She thinks of her Ser and puffs out her chest with pride, thrusting herself forward and not caring about the harness.  
She hears a soft chuckle. “You can tell she's Jaime's; had to get that cockiness from somewhere, hmm?” Sansa responds by lifting her chin, keeping her head high and there's a friendly squeeze on her shoulder. “You'll be all right, sweetling. Other bois have come through and they've been just fine.”  
A hot whisper on her ear, scratch of stubble. “Well—needed a cushion for a few days.” She quivers with fear and excitement as there's a stop, then a gentle tap on the back of her knees. Sansa kneels, her head spinning, knowing this must mean that her Ser is nearby. She straightens her spine to keep her chest thrust forward, perfect, elegant and lovely; a little too aware that she doesn’t have a skirt to flow around her knees and Sansa's only a little self-conscious as she rests her hands on her thighs, palm up just as her Ser has taught her.

A voice; warm, sultry with a hint of a smile. _Like caramel._ Sansa thinks and then of course she's hungry again which makes her blush even as she's trying not to squirm from excitement.  
“This is the boi who would join our august company?”  
Sansa nods.  
“Speak.”  
“Yes, Ser. I do.” Her voice sounds loud in the room even though she's speaking low and firm to cover up a tremble in her voice. She hears a shuffle of boots and the creak of well-worn leather (and is suddenly worried about how new her ensemble is. Can she earn them? Sansa briefly wishes she were back at the Fairmont with Ser and Lady, laced into one of her deliciously familiar corsets and balancing on dainty heels instead of heavy black boots.)

“Good.” The voice soothes Sansa's nerves, warm and gentle, with a hint of amusement.  
“Guards, do your duty.”

“Strip.” Sansa hears hissing in her ear and her hands tremble as she tries to reach the buckles on her harness, unzip her shorts. There's a hand on each elbow, helping her balance and one of her guards holds her harness still so she can unbuckle, though it's hard to manage from the shaking of her fingers. Soon she's naked as her nameday, gooseflesh rising on her lower back and inner thighs, where there's suddenly nothing to protect them anymore. Somehow she's folded them without her blindfold coming off, lifts her head as if she's looking for approval though she can't meet anyone's eyes yet.

There's a hush of solemnity with sweetness; Sansa feels her skin prickle with the cold, her nipples harden. (Her body feels alien right now, nothing anymore to mark her as a girl, no lashes or lipstick or wisps of lace that make her look like spun sugar, it's just her and her skin. Sansa also knows she doesn't look like a boy and maybe that's a problem, but that will make things worse and so she bites her lip and waits, patient, hands and feet posed elegantly, yet firmly so she's balanced. Ser Jaime taught her that, that she needs to be solid on her feet before anything else.

She hears three claps, ringing through the air.

And in rich, smoky caramel tones that make her quiver, Sansa hears  
“Let there be light.”

Someone slices her arm ties, the blindfold's gone and Sansa has to remember how to open her eyes, a sliver at a time.

Then suddenly light so brilliant even though as her eyes adjust it's low; candles and lanterns and tiny white lights. As her vision swims, she sees them all; what seems like an army in perfect black leathers, chaps  
harnesses and high boots, jodhpurs and patches all shined like dragonglass. The Sworn Brothers—and at the centre, in an armchair bright as fresh cream, a vivid brushstroke of white, luminous as moonlight on snow and at the centre, twin glints of amethyst.

Ser Arthur Dayne regards her, trying not to smile and keep his face stern. His snowy leather trousers gleam, an ivory pearlescent leather jacket as pale as his long hair thrown on casually over his bare chest, platinum rings shimmering on his long pale fingers, his boots bone- white against Satin's back. (Satin does make a charming footrest, though Ser Arthur reminds himself that he really should have been more specific with Satin about one's best; however, given the state of his ebony with rainbow sparkles jock Satin doesn't mind his position at all. Ser Arthur digs in his heel just a bit for the sharp, lovely intake of Satin's breath, the delicate squeak of the top of Satin's black oilslick latex stockings as they rub against each other. Besides, putting Satin on the floor just means the sweet hustler flashes the red bottoms of his high-heeled boots. Ser Arthur knows that's a courtesy.)  
Ser Arthur slowly adjusts his legs to add a bit more pressure to Satin's back and brings what he's been holding forward; it's a whip thin, beautiful cane bright as the inside of a star, almost opalescent in its whiteness, holding all the colours of the world and of course it's drawn blood. Ser Arthur Dayne's fingers curl around the silver repousse Art Nouveau handle and as always, it feels like an extension of his arm, warm and living.

Sansa's head is still dipped down politely. (Inside her heart hammers that _it's him it's him, the Sword of the Morning_ and she feels something unknot within her, as comforting as when her Ser unknots her hair. She will face whatever ordeal this may be. With grace. 

One of her guards lifts up her chin. It's vivid and beautiful and she almost doesn't want anyone to move. She catches a wink of emerald and a grin and Ser Jaime tilts his head back into position till the Lord of Starfall is ready.

Ser Arthur will deal with Jamie in due time. In the meantime, one of his court helps him to his feet (with a sigh of disappointment from the ever-dramatic Satin, though if Ser Arthur didn't enjoy it, Satin would be down at the Golden Company—and Ser Arthur couldn't abide seeing Satin in gold leathers anyway. Not when pearl makes him gleam.)

Sansa thinks the walk will take forever and then slower than she thought and quicker, the Sword of the Morning is at her side, then walking slowly around her, admiring. Her nostrils flare; she catches leather and the rich velvety scent of Tabac Blond; smoke and sugar and elegant delicousness and she's swooning too. But being a good boi, she's still and quiet, not even the flutter of her chest betraying her.

Ser Arthur's hand on her shoulder is firm yet gentle. Idly his hands move down her spine, slowly over to her sides. Sansa stares straight ahead, lifting her arms, lacing the fingers behind her neck to display her breasts and posture just as her Ser has taught her. From the corner, there's a smile and wink before Ser Jamie sets his face stern again. She can relax a bit because she's doing well and Sansa lets herself enjoy the warm, sparking touch of Ser Arthur's fingers. It's electrifying, all of them watching her, his fingers now tracing her lips (will he peek at her teeth like she's a prize horse ?), testing his treat.

Sansa thinks of Ser Jamie behind her moving his hands too so she's between him and Ser Arthur. She feels almost faint, but maintains her posture, looks over at the bar, the framed pictures, the white lights dancing over the faces, reflecting the honeyed tones of the liquor glass beneath them. 

Like being a lady, being a brother seems to have its rules and its beauties.

“Very good.”

Sansa hears a click, feels the cool blade of a knife brush across the back of her neck. She's brave, but Ser Arthur only cuts the ribbon at the base of her hair, letting it flow.

“ Lovely. I do so enjoy a boi with beautiful hair.” There's a whisper with a warmly wicked edge. “ Also good to grab; some of the brothers don't mind a rough ride from time to time. “

Ser Arthur lifts her chin to look him straight in the eye and Sansa feels so exposed, so open that her breath nearly squeaks and she shamefully feels her cunt slicken, warm and wet, then the ghost of a chill on her thighs.

Ser Arthur looks, leans to her ear. “I've heard you don't mind a bit of one either, boi. I know Ser Jamie wouldn't have it any other way.” Sansa blushes furiously, mottling her creamy skin with red and Ser Arthur's lips crinkle almost to smile, but then he's smooth and cool as ivory again. 

“Neither would I.”

A chuckle and Ser Arthur's moving her hands from behind her head, down in front of her till they're folded as Jamie has taught her. Ser Arthur looks at her, and without a word he's almost to her lips, warm enough to feel his breath on them  
(What would it be like to kiss my Ser's sire? What if...we both did?)  
and Sansa's red and white as a winter godswood.

Ser Arthur smiles now, true pleasure and elegance in the unveiling of his beautiful teeth. He's unearthly; her lions are of the sunlight, but he is of the stars and all Sansa can think of is the intertwining of gold and silver, light beyond light and pleasure beyond all reckoning. There's a tiny gasp and she recognizes it as her own.

Ser Arthur laughs softly. He'll enjoy this and from her blushes, so will she.  
It's going to be splendid.

“Well, boi. Shall we begin?”

**Author's Note:**

> "Spread universal joy and expiate stigmatic guilt." --The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence (http://thesisters.org)


End file.
